


Out in the Cold

by beingonstageismagic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Molly Hooper, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I Love You, Molly Hooper Loves Sherlock Holmes, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper Fluff, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-23 18:50:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21086132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beingonstageismagic/pseuds/beingonstageismagic
Summary: “We need to talk.”“You’ve had three months to talk to me.”It has been 91 days since Eurus orchestrated that devastating phone call. It has also been 91 days since Sherlock Holmes spoke to Molly Hooper. On this day, exactly three months after those words were forced from their lips, he has finally found the courage to tell Molly the truth. But, is this day too little too late for Molly Hooper?





	Out in the Cold

She was mad at him, and God knows she had the right to be. He had broken her. He had watched every emotion shatter through her features like a bolt of lightning, he had watched her breath catch in her throat as the tears entered her eyes like crushed diamonds. He had witnessed the heart of Molly Hooper breaking, and he knew it was all his fault.

No matter Eurus’ mental state, he didn’t think he could ever forgive her for the cruelty of that phone call. Not that she would be forgiven for her other escapades that day, but this one would certainly remain in Sherlock’s brain every time he visited his sister. She would live as a constant reminder to Sherlock, a reminder that he was the one who broke Molly Hooper – he broke the woman who mattered most to him, who still mattered the most. And that broke him. He often caught himself looking down at his battered hands, remembering the pain he suffered beating that coffin, a pain he couldn’t feel at the time because his mind was so overtaken by rage and pure sadness. Sometimes, he would smile at the memory of how strong she was. He would remember the crushing moment of her asking him to say it first with a touch of respect – she truly amazed him. Every day.

And every day, he found himself outside of her flat, or wandering the hallways of Barts, or lingering somewhere on her route home. Every day he promised himself he would apologise, he would prepare for her the speech of a lifetime, he would be ready to tell her how he really felt. But he always found himself raising his hand to her door and it freezing in place, he could never knock. He could never bring himself to swoop into her lab the way he used to, he found himself standing in the lift, the doors wide open, and yet he simply could not face the corridor down which her door resides. When he saw her walking home, he would take a deep breath and then realise his feet were glued to the floor and the words died before they could reach his mouth. Every day, he grew more and more disappointed with himself.

But today, the day exactly three months after the catastrophe had occurred, he promised himself he finally would knock. He knew she had been avoiding him as much as he had been a coward also. She would message John about his wellbeing and enquire about him in person when she came to collect Rosie, but she would always drop a text first to see if he was there. She was so wary of his location at all times. She would ask an assistant to check the lab before she entered it, and she would knock on her own office door before creeping in and locking it. She was terrified of the confrontation she knew had to happen. But more than that, she was scared of having to face the reality of the aftermath. He knew she didn’t believe the words he said, she would simply think that he said them to save her life and nothing more – she knew what had happened, John had informed her briefly of the main parts of the story, purposely leaving out particular parts for Sherlock alone to disclose. Now Molly Hooper lived in a perpetual state of pure embarrassment for she believed she had told her best friend that she was in love with him, and he had simply said the words with little to no meaning behind them and hung up straight away. And that view is what he needed to change.

All of these things raced through his mind as he approached Molly Hooper’s door, breathing in deeply and trying to steady his thoughts. He raised his hand and finally, finally … he knocked.

She opened the door slowly, not really paying attention to who was standing in front of her but focusing more on moving her tottering tabby cat out of the way. His eyes scanned her, it was the first time he’d seen her properly in months. There were dark circles under her chocolate eyes, she hadn’t been sleeping. Her hair was thrown carelessly into a ponytail, strands of it falling and framing her perfect face. She was bundled up in an oversized jumper with it being a cold night in the middle of winter, she had fluffy socks on her feet, and he could tell her leggings were fur-lined. He pondered whether this was just Molly being constantly cold or if she had a problem with her heating. As Toby finally waddled away (she’d clearly been feeding him more over the past few months), she looked up and her face paled. A thousand emotions flickered across her face – relief, worry, hurt, confusion – and finally a blank expression showing nothing to the detective on her doorstep who was desperately trying to gauge how she was feeling. She had mastered that face from him and, if this all went well, he would be sure to congratulate her on that later.

He only just shot his hand out in time before the door closed in his face. He winced in pain causing Molly to rip the door open again in panic, thinking she had hurt him she gasped and gave him the once over. That was one of his Molly’s best traits, she forever worried about the wellbeing of those she loved. He hoped he was still one of those who she loved. He smiled sheepishly and raised his hand in a wave, not noticing the blood trickling from one of his barely healed scars – she frowned at this before reaching out for the injured appendage, using it to take him into her kitchen. She didn’t say a word, she didn’t hold his hand, she just took his fingers and cleaned him up with the first aid kit she fished out of her cabinet. He couldn’t do anything but watch her.

“Molly-”

“Don’t.”

Her voice was firm, reminding him of the confidence she had exhibited on the phone, but just like he could then, he could tell she was shaken.

“Please.”

“I’m going to fix your hand, and then you’re going to leave.”

“We need to talk.”

“You’ve had three months to talk to me.”

He stuttered as she looked up at him with daggers in her eyes but pure hurt behind them.

“I know. I just- I didn’t know when the right time would be. I’m sorry.”

Her expression faltered at his apology before steeling again.

“Well, you’ve missed it. Just let me fix your hand and then you can go.” She looked down at his hand again, finally noticing the rest of the abrasions and bruises covering them, she gasped at the extent of it all. Her heart stuttered in worry and a second of concern shot across her face. “Sherlock…”

Her voice trailed off rather than continuing its concerned enquiry and, although painful, this was a sign of the angels to Sherlock. It proved that somewhere inside her, she still cared about him. He bit the bullet as it flew from his mouth.

“I destroyed it.”

She looked up at him, that steely expression restored.

“I hit it, I smashed it to pieces. It splintered and, well, here we are.”

He knew she didn’t require any context; he knew she would understand that he meant that blasted coffin. She blinked at him, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.

“Sherlock, I really can’t do this right now.”

It was as if a child had drawn a scribble of confusion and worry over his face, it was a look that perplexed her, the sincerest face she’d ever seen Sherlock Holmes make - and mean.

“You’re not having another not very good day, are you? God, Molly, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“No, Sherlock. My day was fine.” Her tone was so clipped it felt like she’d just cut his heartstrings. Sherlock did not like this feeling of rejection and hatred, not one bit.

“Molly, please. Just let me explain what happened.”

“John already did that.”

“No, he didn’t. Not fully. Not to the extent to which you deserve.”

She once again looked up at his beautiful face, even when she despised him, he still mesmerised her. Her eyes swapped from his face to his hands a few times, his large hands still within hers. The heart within her burned with a longing she didn’t recognise, she wanted to envelop him into her arms, cradle him close and tell him how sorry she was for everything he had had to go through that day for she knew it must have been a day from Hell. But her head just would not let her. He’d pushed her around too many times now. If he’d have turned up at her door months before, she may have taken him straight into her arms whether he meant what he said or not. But now, now she had had time to brew over things in her head, to sit and study the story John had told her and create a thousand scenarios in her mind. She knew Sherlock didn’t love the way she loved him. Yes, he was far more capable of feelings than he thought he was, and she knew he loved her in some way, perhaps not as much as he loved John and Mrs Hudson and Mary, but the same way, even if it was just a little bit. The difference was, she is in love with him, and she’s not sure if he can handle that. She’s not sure if he’s ready for that yet, or if he ever will be. She doesn’t even know if he knows the difference between loving someone and being in love with someone. And if she was really honest, she didn’t really want to find out. She wasn’t quite ready for those walls around her to shatter yet and his confirmation would do exactly that. She’d worked hard to fix herself after what had happened, and she wasn’t willing to let Sherlock tear all of that down, especially if he didn’t feel the same way she did. Which he didn’t, she knew that.

But she supposed it was only fair to him to finally hear him out, after all, she reckoned John hadn’t told her the full story anyway.

“Fine,” she said, “the floor is yours.” Her voice was still so bitter, it made him wince slightly.

“May we sit?” he gestured towards her couch, she just shrugged and nodded. She slowly made her way over to the sofa, purposely angling herself towards what had become ‘his chair’ when he had camped out in her flat in the past, signalling that that is where she expected him to sit. She was surprised when she felt the cushion next to her dip as he sat close beside her, she shuffled to face him, moving away from him slightly – much to Sherlock’s disappointment.

“Okay…”

He took a deep breath and began to tell her all about his childhood, his best friend murdered by his jealous little sister and his family home being set aflame, the incarceration of his sister and his replacing of his own memories, by the time he got to the part about Baker Street blowing up, Molly’s expression had completely changed. Her steeliness had withered away, and her face was simply drawn up in concern, but she remained silent and so he carried on.

He told her about infiltrating the prison, Eurus’ reign of power, her meeting with Moriarty (he had to hide a smile at the disgust on her face at the mention of his name, she still saw herself as the girl who dumped the world’s best consulting criminal and he loved it). When it came time to tell her about each room and its challenges, his throat closed, and he lost his words. He hadn’t relived this story in three months. His gaze lowered to his hands in his lap and he was more than shocked when he saw her hand leave her person and float to land on top of his, her slight squeeze willing him to go on. He smiled slightly at her, although he did not let the moment go to his head, it was too early for that.

After another deep breath, he told her about the shattering events that took place as they moved through Sherrinford. He watched her shiver at the story of the director shooting himself and his wife dying anyway, she gasped when he explained how Eurus condemned the innocent before the guilty. Tears formed in her eyes as he explained how Mycroft offered his life so that Sherlock did not have to lose another best friend but how that best friend would not allow Sherlock to lose a brother. He noted the increased pressure her hand exulted on his own when he explained the final trial – saving both ‘the girl on the plane’ and John. As he finished, he glanced across at her and saw a single tear fall down her soft cheek, leaving a river in its wake, his hand ached with the want to wipe it away.

She sniffed – he couldn’t tell if it was a cold or her tears, but it kept happening - she had no words for what he had told her, but she had one question.

“And where did I come into all that?”

“Just before I had to choose between Mycroft and John.”

“And that’s where the coffin was?”

“Yes.”

“And you had to make me say it to save my life?”

“Yes.” At Molly’s questioning eyes he elaborated, he knew John had told her this, but he also knew how different it was for her coming for his lips, “She- she told me she had your flat set to blow up if I didn’t get you to say the release code, those words. She made it very clear that I could not let you know anything was wrong. And I tried so hard to do that, I couldn’t let her hurt you. I knew she wouldn’t hesitate after what I had already seen that day. She didn’t do what Moriarty did, she saw how much you matter to me and she used that against me. And for that, I can only apologise.” He looked at her and turned his hand beneath her own so he could wrap his long fingers around her tiny palm. “I am so sorry, Molly. Truly. And I just hope that one day you can forgive me for what I did. And I hope you’ll understand that what I had to do hurt me more than you could ever imagine.”

She breathed and looked at their hands, she squeezed his for a moment before dragging hers away and Sherlock immediately longed for the return of the contact.

“How did you know it was about me?”

“The coffin.”

“How? Because I’m a pathologist? Seems a shallow and loose connection.”

“No. It was small, for someone below five foot four, but too practical to be a child’s. It was not gaudy or expensive, simple and good enough to do the job.” He took a breath, feeling like he was drowning and fighting for some air, “and there was the top.”

“The top?”

“It- it had a plaque on it. That said-” The words were born in his throat but died on his lips, so he simply reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out the cold piece of golden metal. It had bent slightly in the middle, but Sherlock did not know if that was down to his fit of rage or the number of times he had handled it since. He handed it to her. It felt like the weight of the world in her hands. She turned it over and read the dreaded phrase, her heart sank, her eyes filled with tears and she stood up. She was, for some reason, filled with a newfound anger.

“Great, that’s just brilliant. It took you two deductions from a coffin and eight letters to make you realise that it was pathetic little me trailing after the great Sherlock Holmes! No wonder she targeted me, clearly it’s the most obvious thing in the world! Jesus Christ! I’m sorry, Sherlock. I can’t have this conversation anymore. I’m sorry for what happened but I’m just not ready to have my heart broken again. I know why you did it, it’s okay. I’ll get over it, but I can’t sit here and wait for you to tell me that it all wasn’t true. I get it, I was just an object in a game. Thank you for coming, but you can let yourself out. I need a walk.”

With that, she stormed out of her own flat, grabbing nothing but a scarf to protect her from the harsh winter air, and slammed the door behind her. Sherlock rose to his feet and eyed up the tabby cat who had re-entered the room at the sound of the door, what Sherlock would give to lead a life as simple and pleasant as Toby’s. He steadied himself as he walked to the door, wiped the tear that trickled down his face and braved the cold. He turned his head left and right, trying to locate his Molly. She was about ten steps away from him towards the right, the creature of habit that she was had her heading towards Barts. He caught up with her in seconds. She didn’t realise until she felt the weight of his Belstaff drape across her shoulders. She stopped and looked at him. His heart cracked for every tear that fell down her face, each one leaving a line behind reminding him of what he had done to her.

“Molly, I am so sorry.”

“Sherlock, just leave me alone.” She shrugged his hands off of her shoulders and turned away from him, about to shed his coat when his sudden voice stopped her.

“I meant it.”

His hands were placing the giant coat back onto her narrow shoulders, he turned her to face him once again and pulled the coat together in the middle, attempting to cover up his shivering pathologist. She blinked at him. He said it again.

“I meant it.”

Her head was spinning. It was exactly the same as when he said those words on the phone. His tone was desperate when he said it the first time, then the second … it was sincere, it was, it was like a realisation. But her guard was still up.

“How am I supposed to know you’re not just trying to make me feel better? I know you love me, Sherlock. The same way you love John and Rosie, and Mrs Hudson.”

“No. It’s not the same.”

“Sherlock, please-”

“Molly, stop. I do love John and Rosie, I do. But I don’t _love _them. I know you think I don’t know the difference, but I do. I don’t get butterflies in my stomach when I see John, I don’t have sleepless nights when I think I’ve upset Mrs Hudson, I don’t kiss Rosie on the cheek for the same reasons I kiss you.” He tilted her head up to look directly at him, “I meant it.”

She shook her head and looked away.

“I can’t do this.”

He reached for her hand.

“Molly, please. Think about it. Yes, Eurus exploited your feelings for me, but the real aim was to make me admit my own. This plaque,” he pointed to the metal she forgot she was holding, “it’s like an epigraph. Molly, you know the dead don’t write their own epigraphs. Their loved ones do. The plaque wasn’t about who loved me, it was about who I loved. That’s how I knew it could only be you. John thought Irene Adler, but I don’t love her, she may feel for me but that was simply irrelevant in that situation. Whatever was written on that plaque was my words, my words for you. Because, I- I love you, Molly Hooper.”

She peered up at him from below her loose strands of hair, her teeth were chattering, and she was shivering constantly – he instantly regretted rambling for so long in this weather. Without his Belstaff, he was feeling the cold as much as she.

“You do?”

“Yes. More than anything. Now, please, _please _can we go inside.”

He held out his hand: she simply nodded and took it. When they got back into her flat, he took the coat from her shoulders and hung it up, unwrapping her scarf from around her neck with a gentleness she may have previously thought impossible. He took her hand again and led her into the living room. For some reason, she was avoiding his gaze.

“Molly? Molly, look at me.”

She did. He took both of her hands into his own and stepped closer to her, meaning she had to lift her head a little bit more.

“I meant it. I love you. I am in love with you. And I want nothing more than for you to say you feel the same way.”

“Sherlock, I-”

“I know I’ve left this too long; I know I deserve to be slapped ten times harder than you’ve ever slapped me before. I know I deserve to be kicked out of your life for good. I know that I simply don’t deserve you. But I need you, Molly. Please say you forgive me. Please say you’ll let me back in.”

She sniffed again, wiped a few tears away with one hand and looked at him. Her expression was so innocent, so fragile, that he could have sworn his heart expanded. She said nothing, she simply raised herself onto her toes and placed the lightest of kisses on his lips.

“I forgive you.”

He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face, which reflected on her own.

“Thank you.”

She didn’t hesitate after that to crash into his chest, the tears finally falling as her walls slowly came down. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand surrounding her shoulders and the other holding her head to his chest, his finger rubbing soothing shapes into her hair. He rested his head on top of hers. After a few minutes, she composed herself and pulled back. A small mischievous smile spread across her perfect little lips. Then she lifted her hand and whacked him in the chest.

“Hey! What was that for?”

“For making me wait three months.”

“Actually…” his cheeks reddened in embarrassment, “I’ve tried to pluck up the courage to talk to you every day since.” She raised a questioning eyebrow, “For the last 91 days, I have turned up at your door for 42 times, wandered Barts for at least half an hour 30 times, and attempted to catch you on the way home for the other 19 days. I just never had the courage to actually approach you.”

She smirked.

“Are you telling me that I scare you, Sherlock Holmes? Little, pathetic me?”

“You’re far from pathetic, Molly. And I am aware that you can deliver quite the slap remember?” He chuckled and she smiled, albeit guiltily, “But I wasn’t scared of you, I was scared of losing you. I need you, Molly Hooper.”

She reached up and wiped his watery eyes.

“I need you too.”

They smiled together, sweetly and lovingly. The truest smiles they had ever given another person. She shivered again.

“Right, I’m freezing. What do you say to some hot chocolates and some crap telly?”

“Sounds perfect,” he said softly, slowly bringing her closer to him once again, “but first…”

His lips met hers. They both felt they could be flying, they were weightless. They were in love. In that moment, there was nothing but them, together.

Sherlock and Molly, exactly where they were meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please, please, please let me know what you think and tell me if you have any suggestions or requests! I'm loving being back to writing, thank you again for your continued support! Xx


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